A Dark and Vengeful God
by DonLambert
Summary: The Phantom had never had anything, and the Barber had lost everything. They realize that not only are they running from the law, but from their pasts. Is there light in the darkness for the two murderers? SLASH! Because we need more Erik/Sweeney slash.
1. part I

Hi! If you found this story, thanks for taking a look. Please give it a try!

I have searched and searched for some Sweeney/Erik slash, and let me tell you, there is none to be found, and I have no idea why. I think it's a great pairing, and I know that other people share my views, so I took it into my own hands to write my own.

I think that Erik and Sweeney would be perfect for each other, but that it would be quite the difficult pairing to pull off convincingly. I'm gonna do my best and see how this goes, I'll try to keep them in character, it may not always work, let me know what you're thinking. I'm going to want some feedback to see how to proceed, so there you are, now you're committed :)

I like to write funny stuff, but this going to be a serious fic! If you know anything about our musical murderers, you can guess that there are going to be angst and fluff overloads. I think I have some plot lined up, but we'll see. You never know with me.

This takes place after their respective stories, so there are spoilers. I use movie Erik with Kay Erik's past (the ultimate fangirl combination) and movie Sweeney.

The rating is for safety for now, but it will earn that M in later chapters, as any good slashfic should. And if you're looking for some action right up front, this isn't the fic for you. We've got feelings and emotions to deal with. (please read anyway though!)

And if you didn't already know, I own nothing! Nothing!

Enjoy!

A Dark and Vengeful God

DonLambert

"There was a barber and his wife

And she was beautiful

A foolish barber and his wife

She was his reason and his life

And she was beautiful

And she was virtuous

And he was…"

Of course Sweeney Todd had dropped that razor…and deep inside he knew why. He was to meet the same fate as his victims. There was nothing left for him but to welcome whatever lay waiting in that darkness that had taken everyone he had cared for. He could hear the boy behind him. He raised his chin, expectantly, longingly. And then, the clatter of silver on stone, and a series of hitching gasps. Toby ran from the bake house like a child possessed, taking the steps two at a time, and surely kept running through the streets of England for days. It seemed Toby, so young, could not exact the revenge that Sweeney Todd so deserved.

Fate truly was cruel.

He had been ready to die, wanted to die, begged, and yet he was the one who lived at the end of this bloody farce. He lived, but for what? To watch his daughter run off with a boy that had so long ago helped him. To find that the woman he had come to grudgingly trust had been lying to him from the start. To hold his wife's emaciated body in his arms, her once blonde hair caked with mud, staring at the blood seeping from that ugly gash in her neck. The woman he had loved and murdered. To be alone.

"…Naïve"

It was tears that dripped onto his Lucy's still face, as beautiful as ever in its ruin, in place of his blood.

He didn't know how long he sat there on the hard stone floor of the bake house, cradling his wife's small, light form in his arms, but the fire in the giant oven had long since burned out and enveloped him in darkness before he finally stood. Only a sliver of light remained from the door to the staircase that Toby must have left open. Moving very slowly, trancelike, he stepped over the three bodies to bend and pick up the razor that that infernal boy had left behind. His eyes rested on Turpin's corpse, the blood on his skin looking purple in the pale moonlight. Turpin. It had all been because of Judge Turpin, all of the pain and rage. And now that he was finally dead, Sweeney found that he was lost. He was quite blind, with no idea what to do next.

Slowly he lifted the razor, letting it flash tiredly, showing him his contorted, bloodstained reflection. He knew that just one swipe across his throat would end it all, like Toby was supposed to have done, and yet…something inexorable would not let him do it. He was broken, but he must go on.

He hated the boy, hated him utterly and completely for leaving him like this. He couldn't be truly blamed, of course; he was young, still so innocent, something in him, something that was in all properly sane little boys, wouldn't have let him commit murder like that. But Sweeney Todd didn't want to live like this, with the knowledge that he had killed his own wife, and truly never would even glimpse his daughter again. He knew that it was now himself that he would never forgive, that horrible plummeting in his stomach and constricting of his heart, when he had recognized that face on the stone to be his Lucy, that he would never forget. "Don't I know you, mister…"

And yet, he couldn't kill himself. He would have thought, after all he had been through, it would have been easy, but something that he couldn't identify made him fold his razor closed and slide it back into the holster on his belt. He knew that he could never stand to stay here at fleet street, and so he slowly made his way out of the bake house, closing the doors with a bang on a past the he knew would haunt him forever.

There was some reason that he must live, some reason out there, and so without looking back, he started to walk.

He let himself completely lose track of where he was going, turning down endless gray London streets, walking quickly, head down, for hours on end. Or perhaps only minutes, the way time blurred together so seamlessly. He was lucky that it was the dead of night, and that he didn't pass any police officers, because blood still covered his face, ran through his hair, and had soaked an entire sleeve of his white shirt. They would come for him eventually, of course, once it was discovered that the judge had gone missing. The police would stop at nothing to find out what had happened to that pious bastard and his little lap dog, and eventually the trail would lead to Mrs. Lovett's seller. Everything would be discovered, of course, their genius plan unraveled, and the barber's face would be on wanted posters all over the city of London. He found that he didn't care.

But the stares that people gave him as he stalked down the street, cowering from his bloodstained face, the normally brazen night life shrinking away from his demonic glares. People! He hated the lot of them; the whores clinging to the street lamps, the disheveled old men looking for an alley to crawl down, the carriage drivers yawning in exhaustion as they whipped their horses into a faster shuffle. Not one of them screamed when the saw him, but he so wished that they would. Confirmation that he was the monster he felt like. A miserable, guilty demon with no purpose but to leave.

Soon, without knowing it, he found himself at London's train yard, standing as close as possible to the tracks, listening to the rumbling of cargo trains snaking past in the moonlight. He could jump. Easily jump down in front of one of the shrieking trains and end it all. Would he? That strange sensation was there again, holding him back. But perhaps, if he stood here long enough, let the rumble of the passing freight trains shake him enough, he could do it…

And then there was singing.

"Anywhere you go, let me go too…"

The moment she had truly been his, he knew that he could never have kept her.

He loved her with all of his being, and he could never, ever, bear to see her unhappy. When they kissed, it was all over. That wretched, handsome boy. He knew Raoul would keep her safe, make her happy and normal. The pity, the grief in that kiss…he had to let her go. His Christine, his music, his angel. And the ring…she had come back to him, her poor phantom, her broken angel, to say goodbye…but he would not wear that ring around his neck like some totem, a constant reminder of his love and anguish…

And yet, he thought bitterly as he walked down the street, how could he be surprised? He had expected this, the moment he had heard her sing he had known that it would end in tragedy, for how else could such a passionate romance end for the creature that humanity had damned to the darkest crevices of the world? The mysterious composer who longs for acceptance, in his own tragic opera, a story fit for stages around the globe. He was never meant to know the utter sweetness of love given and love returned. He never had been truly happy, and he was now quite sure that he never would be.

And so he had left his lair that night, fleeing the opera house that he had so lovingly built, his shrine to music, without quite knowing where he would go. He only knew that he had to leave. He would move on again, to another place, another tragic chapter added to his haunted past…more looming memories that he wished he could forget.

He had been traveling for weeks now, on his own, and had made his way to England. There was no way he could have stayed in Paris, with memories threatening to overtake him on every street he walked and a warrant out for his arrest. They would never have caught him, of course, but nonetheless he had a feverish need to roam. He needed time to heal the wounds that his angel had left on his heart.

Maybe he would go back, eventually. Once they had rebuilt the opera house, once Christine had started her new life with Raoul in some countryside villa. What a life they would have, free of worry and ghosts. And Paris would rebuild, of course, he was sure of it. The fire hadn't completely desecrated the great theatre, and Paris would never let such a structure simply fade away. If there was anything Paris adored, it was music. His Paris, his beautiful France…

Erik found that he almost missed it already as he tread the grimy grey streets of London, thinking silently to himself, trying to find something for himself to do in the dull, sleepy city. He grew restless so easily if he didn't have something to focus his attention on… Perhaps the law would track him down eventually, but now that he had crossed the English channel, he seriously doubted it.

Soon his feet had taken him to the London train yard, he realized curiously. Perhaps he would listen to these grumbling machines make their own industrious music for a while, and try to sort out his thoughts. He walked slowly through the old yard, not paying particular attention to anything, and as he walked, he unconsciously began to sing, as he so often did. The Phantom had no idea that he wasn't alone in the train yard at this time of night until someone quite close to him turned at the sound of his murmered song. A surprisingly handsome someone with a wild tangle of black hair, someone covered in a red liquid that he himself knew quite well.

Sweeney had never heard such a voice before. He wasn't a particularly devoted music connoisseur, of any sort, but even he was affected by that indifferent, soft, heart-wrenchingly beautiful song that was coming from somewhere close behind him. Immediately all thoughts of trains or jumping were flushed from his mind as he turned, searching for the source of that otherworldly voice. He found standing next to him the man that would eventually change his life.

He was tall, incredibly elegant in the way that he held himself, and power emanated from him like a dark aura. He wore a black dress suit, long, velvet lined cloak, and over half of his face he wore a bright white mask, illuminated like a beacon by the moon that hung far above their heads. He had raven hair and was lithe and muscularly built, and the side of his face that wasn't shrouded by the mask was incredibly handsome.

Sweeney stared at this strange man, transfixed, and the figure seemed equally intent on him, dark, piercing eyes running intelligently over the barber.

Sweeney was shocked when the man said in his velvety voice, as calmly as if they were discussing the weather, "You are covered in blood, monsieur." He had a heavy, but not unpleasant, French accent.

The barber's forehead creased, and the man cocked his head to the side curiously. It was as if he was just that, curious, instead of terrified or outraged at the site of a strange man soaked head to toe in blood.

When Todd didn't reply, he continued, "And seeing as though you are not injured, I can only assume it comes from another person, and therefore I can't help but wonder who you've killed."

Sweeney's eyes became very distant, and he stared without seeing at a spot over the new man's shoulder. After a long minute he whispered harshly, "My wife."

"Oh." He seemed both saddened and repulsed, as if he thought it had been on purpose that the barber had murdered his Lucy, as if he didn't want to think of such a thing.

Sweeney shook his head, bringing the world back into focus. "No, no…it was an accident, you see…I didn't know she lived. This blood, it's not hers…this is from revenge on the man that took me away from her all those years ago, who I thought had killed her…"

He wasn't sure why he was telling this strange man these things, the words just poured sadly from his mouth. It was clear that the cloaked figure didn't understand, but he didn't dwell on the issue. "I'm apologize, that sounds terrible…I won't make you continue…"

Sweeney got the odd feeling that he was being shown a compassion that this masked creature didn't often offer, and yet he was hit by a strong surety that the other man understood his pain. The barber suddenly felt incredibly unsure what about how to continue. His eyebrows furrowed together, "I…"

"I am the Phantom of the Opera," he said suddenly, courteously offering forward a gloved hand. "But, you can call me Erik."

"Sweeney Todd," the barber replied hesitantly, shaking the strong hand, "The Demon Barber of Fleet Street."

"I hope, monsieur Todd, that I wasn't disturbing you…I've been walking for along time, you see, and – "

Suddenly there was a shout from somewhere behind them, "Hey, tha's 'im! Tha's gotta be 'im! COME ON, THERE 'E IS!"

A/N: Review! Let me know what you think! The title is subject to change, I picked it rather quickly. We're using roman numerals for the chapter names because that makes it a serious story.


	2. part II

Hey there!

I fully realize that pretty much no one is going to read this, but that's okay, because I enjoy it anyway, and my friend reads it, and if I was me, this would be just what I wanted to read. Er...wait...anyway, never mind.

I do realize that this is in book world, and we're using movie Erik, but I'll be taking things from the book (mostly Phantom), and I don't want to mislead anyone.

Anyway, enough of me talking, more story!

xxxxx

PART II

The Phantom whirled around in anger to find that, to his great surprise, four police men were racing down the street towards them, brandishing large clubs. "God damnit, they found me already?" he exclaimed at the exact same moment that Sweeney shouted, "Shit, they're already after me?"

They turned to each other in confusion. "Wait, they're after you?" "They're coming to find you?"

But there was no time to deliberate why the other should deserve being arrested; the police officers were quickly closing in on them. Erik, having more experience in the matter of escaping from people who wanted to beat him with blunt objects, grabbed the barber by the arm and began to drag him along behind him as he ran, cape billowing behind him. They ran parallel to the tracks until they hit a dead end in an unluckily placed brick wall, and Erik's eyes frantically darted around for another street, or any means of escape. He realized within a second that there was only one option. He gave the barber's arm another yank, "Come on, we'll have to cross the tracks," he said, leaping down onto the first train track with the grace of a cat.

"Wha – Are you kidding me? There's about 20 tracks! We'll be killed!"

"We won't! There aren't any trains for miles! But if you don't hurry up there might soon be!"

"Oh alright, alright, fine!"

The phantom offered up a gloved hand, but Sweeney jumped down unassisted, and the two took off across the rows of tracks as if the rusted metal beams had turned to molten lava. They stumbled onto the pavement on the opposite side of the tracks, panting and relieved. Erik gazed back across to where the police officers were throwing wild gestures at them, knowing that before long the four men would either find another way across or just make a run for it themselves.

He didn't need to pull the barber this time, Sweeney ran right alongside him as the pair dashed down a dark alley. Erik managed to find a small crevice in the wall behind two dustbins, and he pulled Sweeney into the shadow, squeezing together and putting a threatening finger over Todd's lips. "Quiet…"

They stood in that alley for a tense three minutes before the police officers ran past, completely oblivious, and they could relax. The tight space suddenly felt very awkward, and Erik quickly slithered out from behind the dust bins, brushing off his waist coat. "Come on," he said without missing a step, "We've got to keep going."

Sweeney frowned, "Where?"

"I don't know, but we have to get out of London."

"Out of London…yes."

They started off in the opposite direction that the police officers had gone, striding briskly, easily falling into step with each other. "We should find a carriage as soon as possible," Erik began after a while. "Of course, what you want to do after that is your choice."

The barber looked over at him, "What I want to do?"

"Sure, you don't have to continue traveling with me, or even get in the carriage, I mean, really, monsieur, we hardly know each other." Something felt like they did know each other, though. "What do you think you're going to want to do?"

"I want to die, monsieur, is what I want to do," he spat, suddenly venomous. "I just can't seem to bring it about myself." And then an idea sparked in his black eyes, "Hey, you could kill me. Would you kill me?"

"No," the Phantom said with an exasperated sigh, "Look, you're not thinking properly."

"Oh I'm not thinking properly, am I? Well I'm sorry if my wife is dead! Maybe that has something to do with my not thinking properly!"

"Let's just get a carriage as quickly as possible."

The barber scowled at him, lapsing into silence.

"Dear God, I never thought I'd be the sane one in any situation; I feel like my old friend Nadir…Ah, good there's a carriage. Right, here we go…"

An empty buggy drawn by two handsome black horses had been trundling along down the street, heading towards them. Erik flagged it down and the driver, a portly, moustached man, had peered down at them, looking slightly concerned at his two customers he was about to pick up. One was in a mask and cloak and the other was, after all, covered in drying blood.

Erik asked hurriedly, "What is the farthest distance that you can take us, Monsieur?"

"Er, well, I can go all the way out ta Brightvale, sir."

"That is out of London?"

"It's about ten miles from city's edge, sir, yes," offered the driver warily.

"Good, good," Erik said absentmindedly, pulling a small velvet bag from his coat. "And how much will that cost?"

The driver blinked, "Ah, 'bout 10 quidd."

"Right, listen, I am going to give you another hundred pounds. You are not to go to the police or tell anyone that you saw us. You are not to say a single word. You will take us to Brightvale and then completely forget that we were here tonight. Do you understand?"

"I…ah…yes, yes, of course sir…whatever you say!" Stuttered the portly man, mouth agape at the wad of cash that had been thrust into his fist.

Erik climbed gracefully into the carriage, Sweeney following him robotically, eyes still distant. The cabin was dark inside, moonlight trickling tiredly in through the windows and onto the musty velvet seats. They sat across from each other, Erik looking out the window and Sweeney staring at his hands as the carriage lurched into motion.

For a long while they sat in mutual silence, thinking the deep thoughts that they both were prone to, until Erik finally turned his head and glanced at the barber. "Well. You decided to come after all."

The pale man raised a bitter eyebrow, "What else could I have done? Face it, I don't have much of a choice at this point."

"Yes, I suppose not. I'm afraid I won't offer much help on the cheering up front…I'm not much of a traveling companion."

"It's Erik, you said?"

"Yes." He paused for a moment, arms crossed in front of his chest, surveying the barber through that glowing white mask. "If you don't mind me asking, Monsieur…"

But Sweeney cut him off before he got to finish. "I don't want to talk about it," He said harshly, turning to look out the window, face contorting. For a long moment Erik thought he had fallen silent for good, and he had turned his thoughts to a symphony he was composing, when suddenly Sweeney spoke.

"It was all Turpin's fault, you see…"

Erik stayed silent.

Sweeney took another breath, steadying himself. "She was the most beautiful girl you'd ever seen, my Lucy. We were so happy together, for those fleeting years when I still believed there was good in the world. Every day she would fill the room with light. The only person that I ever could have loved more than her was Johanna. Our daughter had the prettiest smile.

"And then, naturally, a greedy, pious aristocrat had to rip away everything that mattered to me in the world with one gesture of his hand, one disgusting lustful thought.

"Fifteen years later I escape from Prison to learn from my landlady that my wife had killed herself and Judge Turpin had taken my little girl. It all ended there, of course. I had lost all of who I used to be. All that I wanted to do was kill him. To take from him all that he had taken from me. It ate at me constantly, consuming me whole. Vengeance was all I was, anymore, although I didn't always let on. Mrs. Lovett never did know just how much I hated that man."

Erik listened in perfect silence as the barber explained painfully about Antony and Johanna, about Mrs. Lovett and the bake house, about the chair, the blood, the gnawing rage. About those infernal pies and everything that they truly meant.

"It was an ingenious plan. I knew that I was finally to have him after so many weeks of suffering, and what was one poor, insane old beggar to stand in my way? Well, nothing at all. Let me tell you, It felt so unbelievably right to stab that razor into his throat. What vindication, that look on his face, the way his blood sprayed the room."

Erik glanced again at dried, ruby blood that stained the barber's face and clothing. Some would be shocked, appalled even, but he found himself savoring his own fond memories as Sweeney described the ecstasy of true, real revenge.

"And then…then I went down into the boiler room. "Don't I know you," She'd said…It was her, she hadn't killed herself after all. I murdered my own wife. I killed her. Well, Mrs. Lovett, she burned, and Toby, he ran. My daughter is gone, ignorant and happy. So you see, sir, I've never been more alone."

They sat quietly for a long minute, Sweeney picking at the carriage seat absent-mindedly.

"What did it feel like?" Erik asked suddenly, "To be loved?"

"Beautiful," Sweeney whispered without hesitation, saying the word like it was a painful memory, the word waking his shadowed eyes, eyebrows contracting for a single moment as a lover 's would when presented with tragic memories.

And suddenly, vividly, he saw his Lucy's blonde hair, saw her smiling up at him from under the new lace hat he had so proudly presented to her, heard her golden laughter. But hadn't her nose wrinkled when she giggled? He couldn't see that. Exactly what shade of blue had those captivating eyes been? He couldn't remember. All he remembered her blood on his hands.

For a long time he stared pensively ahead of himself, thinking…and then he remembered the question that the Phantom had asked, and he shook the ghosts away, suddenly curious. This man had said things that Sweeney didn't think any man could feel until he himself had felt them. And yet, just from a glance in his eyes, it seemed this strange, kindred spirit, had also not felt so many things.

Sweeney blinked, looking up. "The Phantom of the Opera, you said you were called… but who are you, exactly?" The question came out in another whisper.

Erik looked at him for a long moment. He took a breath, stealing a glance out the window at the dark, cool dusk, and then began speaking in that beautiful voice with a calm bitterness. " Who am I? For my fifth birthday, I asked my mother for two things. Two kisses, one for now, and one to save for later. She cried. She told me I must never ask such a thing ever again. That ought to tell you all you need to know. I am a musician. Composer. Magician, architect, murderer…"

The Phantom hated to relive the angers and passionate voids of his past, but the barber had done it for him. Perhaps the barber had needed to tell someone. Erik parted with personal experiences more reluctantly then Raoul with his hair gel, and yet now, finding himself suddenly overcome with the need to talk to this man, he told the barber everything.

"My mother hated me from the day I was born, of course. I ran away when I was ten. I learned to create in Rome, and I learned to destroy in Persia. That's not important, though…No, not necessary. It's that opera house that my life is really about. I was their ghost. The Phantom of the Opera.

"You said, monsieur, that Lucy was the most beautiful woman you'd ever see? Well, forgive me, but you're simply wrong. You've never laid eyes on Christine Daae. I was in love instantly, of course. She had the prettiest voice, a true gift, and I had to make it mine. I gave her the teacher she'd always dreamed of, and I became the Angel of Music. And then Raoul came along. You hated the Judge? I hated that boy."

He went on for quite a while, talking about Raoul, Christine, and the managers, Sweeney giving him his undivided attention the whole time as they trundled through the countryside.

"It wasn't a good plan. I was blinded by love, usually I don't let things like emotions get the best of me, but what could I do. I gave her a choice, stay with me and buy his safety, or go free and kill the one she loved. She chose me, and I'll never forget that kiss…"

It was true. Even as he talked he could taste of the salt of her tears mixing with his own on his lips, see her in that wedding dress as clearly as if he was standing there now, stunned and broken. He shook himself.

"I let her go, I let them both go, I had to. I couldn't make her unhappy."

Sweeney Todd listened quietly to The Phantom of the Opera speak, so dreadfully anguished, about his past. A man that suffered as much as he was suffering right now. It brought a strange sense of comfort over him, as he supposed the Phantom had meant it to, and yet it also filled him with a shadowy kind of hopelessness. For a long time, what seemed like it could have been hours, he was silent, and then the barber finally spoke, knowing that Erik was watching him.

"I've realized something," He whispered like a lost child, as young and full of fragile hope as Erik had been when he had discovered this bitter truth, realization spreading over his haunted eyes. "There is no God, is there?"

"No." The Phantom replied with a calm certainty. "There is beauty, love, hope…it shines for the rest of the world, sparkles like silver, I'm sure. It touches others every day. But there is no God. Perhaps that peaceful happiness of love is God…because the haunted, the hurt, the vengeful, they never can believe. For the truly anguished, there is nothing. And nothing is all they will ever know."

Sweeney raised his eyes, and saw in the Phantom's dark eyes that what he had truly said was, "Nothing is all I will ever know, and all that you will ever know." There was no They. Only the two of them, sitting across from each other.

And Erik suddenly realized that he knew the barber, then and there. They were so similar, and yet so far apart.

Sweeney Todd. His rage, his utter despair, was so new, so young, so bright and vivid. For so much of his life he had been happy, peaceful, sad occasionally, perhaps, with anyone's small and trivial hurts, but with nothing but trust and love welling in his heart when the sun had sparkled in his young wife, satisfied that things would be bright forever. And now all of the hopelessness that he had never known, the madness that he had never expected to haunt him like a thousand screaming ghosts, was all that he knew. And it was so angry and overwhelming in his heart, consuming him like shadows of fire as he sat and stared, his face never changing, only that overpowering despair reflected in his still eyes.

Perhaps Erik had hurt more in his life, been thrown into more blood-lusting rages, held a deeper loathing of the naïve, unknowing humans that passed them in the streets, but the man sitting in front of him, shoulders sagging as he stared tiredly out of the window, hurt now more than Erik had ever hurt at once. It was as if all of the darkness that Erik had fostered over his years had plagued Sweeney Todd over the last month. The Phantom could see the vivid sadness churning in his brain as he sat, a marble statue, gazing like a child first learning of death.

And the two men's eyes met, and it seemed they each understood.

"Well…" Erik began after a moment, but he was cut off as the carriage gave a great lurch and they finally came to a stop.

"We're here, gentlemen," the carriage driver called back.

Erik gave a small smile, and he and the barber jumped out onto the street. Immediately Erik pressed a finger to his lips, signaling Sweeney to be quiet, and then disappeared around the other side of the carriage. There was an odd struggling sound, and Sweeney craned his neck to see what was happening.

Erik walked back two minutes later with a noose in one hand and the wad of money he had given to the driver in the other. Sweeney said nothing, just raised an eyebrow. "Punjab lasso," Erik explained proudly. "Had to get that out of my system. You just can't trust anyone. No reason to leave that money behind either, it may be necessary in the future."

"And the horses?"

"Eh, they'll find their way to town. Horses are intelligent."

More silence from the barber. Erik had noticed just how little the barber talked. It was making him feel increasing like a psychiatrist, which was quite an odd feeling indeed. He had always had the impression that he was the most silent, brooding person that you could come across. He was intrigued, perhaps this barber would prove him wrong.

He took a moment to look around at his surroundings, which had escaped him up until then. It had to be one in the morning, but the night was illuminated with pearly light from the full moon hanging above their heads. They were standing on a wide dirt road, trees scattered along its edge, looking down a smaller road that branched off of the first. It led to an innocent, sleepy looking town that looked like it couldn't have had a population of more then 200. Erik grimaced.

Sweeney frowned, "What?"

"Look how quaint it is. I hate quaint things, they make me sick. Everything should be lavish and grand," he grumbled. "Ah well. Never mind. Come, we need to find a place to stay."

The barber looked up. "We?"

"Oh…Excuse me, I apologize, Mr. Todd," he said in that velvety voice, the corners of his mouth turning pensively down. "That was rather presumptuous of me. I suppose that I've just never actually gotten to use the word properly before."

Sweeney stared in front of him, eyes focused on something non-existent, hanging just behind the light.

Erik gave a bleak sigh, "Of course, you can feel free to leave if my company is not one that you're interested in keeping. I would understand." He expected no other reply; no one spent time with him of their own accord.

And yet, he was surprised Sweeney's face contracted in an instant, eyebrows crunching together. "No," he said quickly, "that's quite all right. I would rather spend my time traveling with someone that I could consider a friend than on my own."

"You would be my friend?" Erik seemed startled at the very prospect.

The barber did not smile, for he was sure that he would never smile again, but he gave small nod. "If you would have my company."

Erik gave him a strange look, but didn't say anything, and so they set off together down the dusty road leading towards the village. "I probably shouldn't say this," Sweeney began slowly, "after I just saw you strangle that man without a second thought, but for some reason, I trust you for now."

"Perhaps you were right when you said you weren't thinking properly."

They walked in silence until they reached the small houses, all of the windows dark and shadowed. "You have got to find another shirt. There's a little inn up there, I see a light on, but they will not let you in looking like that," Erik said with a frown.

"Of course, because there is bound to be a tailor's open at one in the morning."

"I appreciate the sarcasm. Now come on, put on my jacket and let's go."

Sweeney put on the waistcoat wordlessly, following the Phantom into the village, two ghosts in the dead of night.

xxxxx

A/N: Like it? Love it? Hate it? Tell me in a review! I'm all for constructive criticism!


	3. part III

A/N: Hey there! Welcome back, thanks for reading, all that jazz. Not much to say this time, so here's your next chapter!

Remember, I don't own anything! Although you'd like to own the two of them, wouldn't you….you can bet I would.

PART III

Sweeney Todd sighed as he gazed into the dusty mirror in his cramped hotel room.

He had woken, screaming and drenched in sweat, from one of the worst nightmares of his life, and he still felt shaky and sick. He stood there for a long time, taking furious deep breaths, starring bleakly at his reflection in the mirror. He was as pale as always, his eyes even more sunken and shadowed, a streak of bright red in his tangled hair, still there from the night before. Turpin's blood…still in his hair…He shut his eyes tightly, blocking out the memories that were straining to flood his vision, those horrid images from his nightmare that were threatening to reappear in the mirror before him.

The barber shook his head, walking pointedly away from the vanity and out of the room, hands still shaking slightly.

They had each found a room at the town's only lodging, a small "bed and breakfast" with about six unbelievably cramped rooms upstairs and what seemed to be a mixture of a pub, restaurant, and lounge downstairs.

"Good morning," said a rich voice as Sweeney shuffled down the stairs, and he looked up to see Erik sitting at one of the rickety wooden tables, wearing a plain ruffled white shirt, ivory mask glowing even in the cheery light. He realized that this was the first time he had seen the Phantom in daylight, and also the first time Erik had seen him.

His first impression was that he realized why the Phantom didn't like "quaint" things; they made him look incredibly out of place. If there was no other in the world, that was a man that belonged in a grand opera house or a shadowed temple, certainly not in this warm, bright little room with the crackling fire, sitting there looking bored with an unopened newspaper before him. He should be carved into marble, or something of that ilk.

Suddenly, out of the blue as he pondered this, Sweeney noticed that he was hungrier then he could ever remember being.

"Do they have food here?" He asked, sitting down across the small wooden table from Erik.

The Phantom raised an elegant eyebrow, "I'd think they ought to, it is a bed and breakfast."

"My God, I'm so starving…"

"Pray tell, why?" It may have been sarcasm, Sweeney couldn't tell, but he didn't particularly care either.

"Because I can't remember the last time I had a proper meal is why." He said with a shudder. "All Mrs. Lovett would cook was those pies…"

"And you couldn't have eaten one of those?"

The barber looked appalled at the very question. "Would _you_ eat the people that you murdered?"

"I…see you're point. I don't eat often anyways, though."

"Well I don't think I've been hungrier in my life. Is that a menu? Give it to me…"

Within fifteen minutes the barber had a piping hot plate of bacon, toast, fried eggs, and a huge waffle in front of him, set there by the little inn's only waitress. He dug in immediately, surprised at his own voracity, but enjoying the nice, normal food nonetheless.

Glancing up occasionally from his egg, he noticed that Erik seemed to be staring intently into the corner of the room, paying no attention to the barber and his breakfast. Sweeney saw immediately the cause of the phantom's distraction; there was a small, rather dusty, upright piano sitting there, just longing for someone to sit down in front of it and play something sweet. There was an unmistakable desire to match that longing in the Phantom's eyes.

"Why don't you go play something?" Sweeney asked through a mouth of toast and bacon.

"When I left the opera house that night, I vowed never to play again," he said bitterly, not taking his eyes off of the little piano.

Sweeney swallowed, looking at him thoughtfully. "I don't think I believe that."

"Oh, you don't, do you? And how did you come up with that notion?"

"Well, after what you said last night, I don't think that you'd ever give up music."

"And you know enough about me after just one conversation to make such assumptions, do you, Monsieur?"

"Look, I didn't mean anything by it…" Sweeney said, looking slightly hurt. "And why do you insist on this "monsieur" all the time. You can say Todd, or even Sweeney, I think we've reached that point."

The Phantom seemed almost shocked, "We've known each other for a day, if not less…"

"And I've poured my wounded heart out to you! You could at least call me by my name! Somehow I thought that you understood, but maybe that's just _me_, wasn't it. Of course. Well, good day, _sir_," He spat venomously, and with that the barber got angrily from his chair, storming out of the restaurant and leaving his steaming plate of breakfast behind, along with a slightly bewildered Erik, who sighed deeply before turning from the piano and cutting into the barber's waffle.

XXXXXXX

Later in the afternoon, after Sweeney Todd had failed to return to the inn, Erik decided to get out and have a look around the town, if only to find the barber again and prevent him from doing anything irrational, because he himself would much rather not have to interact with people.

It was a cool, cloudy day outside, and only a few people were out milling about as Erik strolled down one of the few towns few streets. It was a nice town, too, he had to admit, with cobble stone streets and little brick shops and the absolute loudest birds he had ever encountered. He wondered, as he walked, if the barber was still around, if he hadn't just left then and there. A large part of him hoped quite strongly that that wasn't the case.

He didn't have to wait long to find out, he turned a corner and saw Sweeney standing next to a bubbling little fountain, still as a statue, gazing into the distance. He noticed that there was a significantly greater amount of blood on his clothes then there had been that morning.

"You can't do this, you know," he said shortly, and the Sweeney's head whipped around. "We're on the run from the law."

"On run from the law…That's all there is now, isn't there?" Asked the barber darkly. "We just…keep running?"

"For now. For now there is nothing else we can do."

Suddenly, Sweeney felt a hot desire to be as far away from this little town as fast as he could. He turned away from Erik, staring back into the fountain. "I don't want to run. I don't want to have to run away from the things that I've done for the rest of my life. I just…I don't want to hurt anymore." The words sounded almost childish as they came out of his mouth, and he was ashamed to find that he felt embarrassed. The barber hated talking…he knew that there was a reason he used to do it so seldom.

It caught Erik as ironic how the tables seemed to have turned; he found himself having to comfort the barber, having to be strong for someone else instead of himself. His words came out harshly though, nonetheless. "But you think that I do? That I want to run? That I want to hurt? That _anyone _on this earth wants to be shunned? It doesn't go away, you 'll have to learn that the hard way. It may fade, but it never goes away."

"I know. I don't mean to sound so…afraid. I know what my future is going to be. I just didn't think that it would be like this…" He blinked. "Running."

"It feels like you're running from the memories right now…all the people and all they've done to make you suffer. That your mind is making you run because it believes that will make it go away. But your heart knows that your mind is wrong. It's all so fucking convoluted, you have no idea what you feel. I…I understand. But trust me, even though it never does go away… eventually the running is just running. Just running from the police. And the memories stop chasing. They just are."

Slowly, the barber turned to face the phantom again, his dark eyes sad. Something about his face made the Phantom's tone soften to a comforting murmur. "Come on, we can't stand out in the open like this. If there's one thing worse than running, it's getting caught, believe me."

XXXXXXX

The rest of the day drug by painfully slowly, Sweeney pacing upstairs, Erik sulking downstairs, both of them trying to find pleasant things to think about. This was particularly difficult for Sweeney Todd, who eventually left his room to go meander his way downstairs and sit next to Erik.

The masked man looked over at him, arms crossed over his chest. "Let's sit at the bar, I think."

"Do they have a bar?"

"Right behind you."

Sweeney glanced over his shoulder. "Oh. Alright then. I could use a drink…anything but Gin. I've had quite enough Gin in my life."

So they settled down at the small bar, apparently in for some more talking. There really was nothing else for them to do in the horribly cozy inn in that dull little town, and both seemed solemnly content to sit next to this new, dare they say, _friend_, and down a few drinks, shearly for lack of anything else to do.

It was reluctantly that Sweeney brought up Erik's past, a subject that the Phantom had merely skimmed over in previous conversations, but after a heavy sigh and a long silence, Erik saw no reason to avoid the matter.

"What to even say…there was Britain, first, then Gypsies, Rome, Persia, and then the Opera House. Pick a card…any card. Except Rome. I don't think I could stand saying…"

"Persia, then." The barber frowned, but Erik just shook his head, "That is a long and eventful tale that I don't feel up to telling in the near future. Pick something else."

"Gypsies…"

"The Gypsies. Ah, yes, rape, that's fun…God, I hate everything. Very well, my time with the gypsy camps started when I ran away from my mother…"

Even when he was just rattling off gritty old memories, the masked man talked as if he was reading from a great, passionately written, gut-wrenchingly vivid and revolutionary novel. A way with words hardly described it, it seemed to Sweeney that Erik had a way with just about everything he came in contact with.

It would later become almost a sort of game for Sweeney to try to badger the phantom into divulging more events of his mysterious, incredibly interesting past.

"I killed for the first time that night. I was finally free. That was probably what started it all… showed me that murder equaled…freedom. And so I ran…"

Sweeney smiled bitterly, turning his empty glass in his fingers, staring fixedly at the cut crystal.

Running.

Clearly, now, he saw that the answer to everything was to kill and to run.

He could have laughed.

XXXXXXX

The Phantom wasn't there when Sweeney came downstairs the next morning. For a couple of hours he sat around, watching people, eating some more normal food, until nothing just got too damn boring for him to handle, and he left the bed and breakfast against Erik's orders.

Against Erik's orders? He pondered this as he stepped outside. Erik had never really ordered him to do anything. He had asked, requested, or told, but never ordered…not that Sweeney would have let himself be ordered around by any other man, of course. No, definitely not. His lip curled at the thought. Why would the Phantom be any different than anyone else? Why should he be able to exercise some benevolent control over Sweeney, when no one else could? Because he told a good story? Of course not. He couldn't, that's it. Sure, he had saved the barber's life, but really, Sweeney hadn't asked for it. Why, then, did he do whatever Erik said, listened to him like he held all the answers?

Why, then, did Sweeney stop dead in his tracks to stare when he found the Phantom standing by that little fountain?

Was it the way he held himself, with that black cloak falling around himself, completely aware of the power that clung to him like a cologne, detached from the world around him, as if he didn't even consider himself to be human. And really, was he? Was he perhaps some sort of demi-god? Sweeney didn't even think he knew. All he knew was that for some odd reason that he didn't think he enjoyed, he was rendered speechless.

He had probably been standing there all night that way! The Phantom seemed like someone who, like Sweeney himself, preferred the veil that darkness provided.

After a long time the Phantom seemed finally to acknowledge his presence, (for Sweeney was sure that he had known he was there the entire time) and he turned towards the barber with an amicable, "Good afternoon."

"What are you doing here?" Was all that Sweeney could come up with.

"Just getting out of that infernal bed and breakfast."

And then Sweeney realized that he was standing in the exact spot, looking refined and superior, that he hadn't been able to stand and think in yesterday. "Oh, so you can wander around in the city in daylight, but I can't eh? Look, I know that I'm not mentally stable, but I don't quite think that you are, either."

The Phantom seemed not to hear that last comment, and he said evenly, "You forget that I have spent my entire life having to remain unseen. I'm quite good it, really. I can make anything disappear if I want to…"

"Again with the instability. Let's go have a drink, eh?"

"It's noon, monsieur Todd…"

"And I need a drink, so come on."

"Why the early alcohol?" the Phantom asked when they were seated at the bar, each with a bourbon in hand.

Sweeney eyes seemed to fill with storm clouds. "I've been having…I just-I can't stop thinking…Every few minutes it comes back to me and I see it all again…what I've done…"

"Understood, no need to continue."

If there was one thing that drew Sweeney to that mysterious phantom, it was that phrase then, and that alone. He didn't know if he had ever been more grateful in his life to hear any singular sentence then that one right there.

He gave Erik an appreciative glance, and turned back to the glass resting in his hand.

"How did you stop yourself from going mad?" Sweeney blurted out suddenly.

"Who's to say I haven't? You said I was mentally unstable just moments ago." It was meant as a slight stab of humor, but neither of them seemed amused.

"I mean _truly_ insane."

"Ah. Well, that would be morphine."

"Drugs?"

"You look surprised. Trust me, there is nothing wrong with a little opiate induced calm to keep those ghosts from screaming at you."

"Ah…"

"Don't look at me like that. I don't have any. Those days are over."

"Over?"

"Sure. Eventually, I learned how to keep the spirits from screaming on my own."

The unexplainable captivation had long ago faded, and as Sweeney sat at the bar next to the strange Phantom, he saw him as just another man, a talented one, granted, who was just as sad as he was.

"And you're not bitter anymore."

The Phantom gave the smallest of smiles, "Bitter? Who said anything about being bitter? It's going crazy we're talking about."

Sweeney said nothing.

Erik continued fondly, "My goodness, no, I'm incredibly bitter. I've just accepted that bitter is what I'm always going to be, and now I don't resent it quite as much anymore."

Silence from the barber.

XXXXXXX

Later in day, after the sun had melted into the horizon and conversation in the small in had lulled to a murmur, Sweeney found Erik again and sat down in front of him, looking at him pointedly. Erik could tell from his posture that there was something on his mind that he was determined to bring to light, and Erik braced himself for another desperate question that he must console.

"What's the plan?"

Erik blinked. "Pardon?"

"I've been thinking about that a lot today, which only further brought to the forefront of my mind the fact that the only thing to do in this stupid little town is to think, something that I have almost no desire to do at the moment. I can't even go outside."

"Because you killed someone. I saw the blood on your sleeve yesterday."

"That is beside the point," Sweeney said angrily. "What I'm really asking is, you brought us here, you suggested this, for some odd reason I've been going along with it, and I can only assume that somewhere in that world you must call a mind, you have formulated some plan that we are to execute. And after two days of stewing in my own horrid memories, I would like to know, pray tell, what are we _doing_?"

"Well…"

"You don't even know!"

"Of course I know, Todd," The Phantom said, looking irritated, "But I doubt that my strategy is as scheming and grandiose as you may be hoping for. What are we after, here, when looking at the big picture? To come to terms with what has happened, to find some respite from all of the memories, and most of all, to not get arrested. We simply have to do whatever achieves those things in whatever situation we find ourselves in."

Sweeney didn't say anything. It wasn't a concrete plan, but he could tell that Erik was working very hard to make it sound like one.

"We'll always be able to avoid the police, and the coming to terms will happen in time. After a while, of course, we will have to decide what our living situations…or, forgive me, we will each have to decide what our own living accommodations will be. You can do whatever you want, of course."

There was that again. Whatever he wanted…right. Not knowing how to reply, Sweeney gave a small frown. "Well, I suppose that we'll get there when we get there, eh?"

"Indeed."

They each gave a sigh. Sweeney went back to pacing, Erik went back to sulking, and their haunted hours drug by.

XXXXXXX

That night, Sweeney had another nightmare, worse than the first, and he woke in the morning with an overpowering sense that something was wrong.

"We have to go back to London," Sweeney said first thing when he met Erik downstairs the next morning, wearing a new white shirt, black trousers and a worried expression.

Erik, sitting at one of the Inn's little wooden tables, looked up curiously as the barber walked in and sat down across from him. "Really? I thought that you never wanted to go back to that city as long as you lived."

"I need my razors."

"You would risk your life just to retrieve those razors? I thought that you wanted to forget."

Sweeney's expression was blank and unwavering. "I need my razors."

"You've got one on your belt right now."

"I need the rest."

Erik sighed, glancing down and pretending to read a section of the newspaper sitting in front of him as he thought. "Alright. Fine. We don't have anything else to do, anyways. You do realize, though, that there are going to be police around every corner? We might not even be able to do this."

Sweeney raised an eyebrow, "I seem to recall you saying something about being the greatest magician the world had ever seen…surely you can get one silly box out of a little room."

The Phantom frowned at this cajoling, "Realize that I feel no need to prove myself to you, Mr. Todd."

"So you couldn't do it, then," Sweeney said mischievously, eyes glinting.

"You drive a hard bargain." He pushed his chair back from the table, standing and straightening his waistcoat. "Let's pack."

XXXXXXXXX

A/N: Your annual annoying plea for feedback, to the tune of All I Ask Of You:

Say you'll read this fic,

My words, my plot line

Lead my hit count from its solitude

Say you love me, or that you hate my writing

Anytime you read, please review

Readers, that's all I ask of you!

Haha, just something I thought up one day. Thanks again for reading!


	4. part IV

A/N: Hello there! Happy Thanksgiving to those that it applies to, here's a new chapter for you to be thankful for! A bit shorter this time, I know, but the next should be longer.

I hereby disclaim.

XXXXXXX

PART IV

Erik stared unabashedly at the barber, following his every movement like a scientist observing a particularly interesting experiment that he was conducting, storing every piece of information that he gathered from the subtle expressions in his mind, logging them and analyzing them. His arms were crossed noncommittally over his chest, his eyes gleaming like a hawk's, half cool and calculating, the other half held in utter rapture. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to open up the barber and find out everything about him.

The barber. Ever since he had found out the man's profession it had stuck to him with surprising surety, as if the two were inevitably linked. They were one and the same, and Erik observed that he could not think of one without thinking of the other. Sweeney Todd, The Barber.

"That was wretched."

The Phantom raised an eyebrow, "Expect everything to be wretched for a while."

"It was boring," Sweeney fumed. "I won't do anything of the sort again."

"But at least we got to know each other," Erik drolled with amicable sarcasm, resting his head against the back of the carriage seat.

"Well, there isn't much else to do, now is there…"

"No, but I think that you're quite interesting," Erik said simply, watching the barber even more intently now.

Sweeney looked at him awkwardly, "….Thank you?"

The barber. Such an innocent profession, quite normal really. A handful of people could call themselves artisans at the trade, perhaps, if they had honed the craft to as fine a point as Todd, but all together such an everyday occupation. Little glory in such a thing as barbery, almost no fame to be had, Erik mused. And yet this man had manipulated it into such a masterpiece of bloody irony, gorgeously turning the mundane into the murderous. It was art, what he'd accomplished.

And he sat there, reserved, with that unexplainable hair, as if he didn't know what Erik was talking about.

"You are."

"You're far more fascinating than me, though," the barber countered.

Erik grinned. "Yes, I daresay I'm one of the most interesting people one could ever meet," he said matter-of-factly. It was vain, perhaps, but it was true.

Sweeney scoffed, "Arrogant, are you?"

"I've learned," Erik said, stretching languidly out on the carriage seat, settling in for the bumpy ride, "never to apologize for your talents." He gave Todd a meaningful look, "No matter what they may be. Sometimes they'll wind up being all you'll have."

The return trip to London went much faster than the ride out, and soon they had paid their new driver another hefty amount of money, strangled him and taken it all back, and set off down the streets of London side by side.

Either of them would have undoubtedly attracted strange looks on their own, but together they drew the stares of almost everyone that they passed. Sweeney, a novice in the walking-down-the-streets-drawing-weird-looks area, ignored most of the passersby, but Erik, who knew the repercussions of said "weird looks," was looking slightly uncomfortable, and one hand was tucked under his cloak, gripping his Punjab lasso protectively.

"You really do want to do this?" Erik said after a moment, looking over at Sweeney. "Just for some razors?"

"Sure. Those razors are…I need them. And besides, putting your life in danger means little when you have nothing to live for."

Erik growled, suddenly furious. "Listen to yourself!" He exclaimed angrily, "Just giving up like that!"

Sweeney shrugged, "You don't understand, you have music and art and so many things you can accomplish. What do I have?"

"Plenty."

"Really? Do enlighten me."

"You have your friend." Erik said forcefully, showing Sweeney that there was no arguing the matter.

For a moment it looked like the barber would crack a smile, but then it seemed like his melancholy got the better of him, and he let out a sigh. "Fleet Street's that way…"

They both seemed to notice, as they drew closer to London's center, the definite lack of the police welcome that they had been expecting. "No wanted posters…I suppose that means that Toby has yet to go to the police," Sweeney said thoughtfully. "Funny, I thought he would have ratted me out within the hour."

"Perhaps he's still in shock. That would scare a boy quite a bit, after all," Suggested Erik.

"Or perhaps he's fled the whole country. There's no way of knowing."

"Those police, then, that chased us that night. They must have been for me."

"That was fast. What does that say about you, I wonder?"

Erik gave a smirk. "That I destroyed an important Paris monument and the management will stop at nothing to see me dead. But hey, tell me something I don't know."

Suddenly, they turned a corner and came face to face with a small crossroads, a small group of police officers standing in a circle, arms crossed, muttering to each other. "Fuck!" Sweeney breathed, a bit too loudly, and one of the police officers started to turn around. Erik grabbed the barber roughly, just in time, pulling him back around the corner and pinning him against the brick wall, gesturing for him to be quiet. They stood there silently for a few minutes, and soon the police officer's conversation started up again.

"We'll be fine," Erik whispered, letting go of Sweeney, "Just stay here. I'll take care of this."

Sweeney wanted to ask how the hell he was going to take on all of them, but before he got the chance Erik had vanished. He blinked, he had truly just disappeared, there one moment and gone the next, presumably coiled like a panther, about to pounce on the cops that were standing so ignorantly in their way. They would never see him coming; he could turn the very sunlight into shadows.

Sweeney couldn't help but peek around the corner. It was quick, subtle, extraordinary. He wielded that simple piece of catgut with a devastating efficiency, as if it were connected to him, as if he and the lasso were one, the most deadly assassin in the country. The world. Perhaps it was no wonder that Sweeney was so uncontrollably captivated. Anyone would be.

It was over as quickly as it had begun, Erik pulling him down another street, the bodies left where they had fallen one after the other. Neither gave any thought to who had seen. There were screams, but they were gone before they started.

The barber looked over at Erik as they fled, walking briskly down a damp back alley. "How did you _do_ that? My god, there were five of them! That was amazing!" He said reverently.

Erik smirked, "The khanum didn't call me her Angel of Doom for nothing."

"The khanum?"

"Persia…"

"Tell me about Persia."

"No, not now…" he groaned.

"I want to know how you _did_ that back there." _I want you to teach me how to be just like you._

"Not _now_, I'll tell you later, I will. Besides, there's Fleet Street right up there. Come on."

XXXXXX

Sweeney led Erik through the bell yard, face stoic, eyes said, as he looked around himself at Mrs. Lovett's old shop, his old life. It was late afternoon, a biting wind rattling through the streets, and the normal crowd of people had all fled inside, curled up eating lunch, leaving no one to see Erik and Sweeney peering into the old abandoned building. The pie shop looked exactly the way he had left it, perhaps a bit more dust had collected on the counter, but it was still considerably cleaner then the way he had first discovered it so many months ago.

Erik frowned, turning away from the shop's window, walking over to the stair case and laying a hand on the railing. He looked back and gestured for the barber to follow him, but Sweeney hesitated. What was going back into that room going to do to him? He looked up at the Phantom again. He'd just have to see, he thought, letting Erik lead him up the stairs

He braced himself for the jarring tinkle of the little brass bell, cringing at the sound as the door creaked open. The room was covered in blood, splashed like a sick art project on the window and the floors. He could feel it spray from Turpin's neck, warm and sticky, covering his face, smelled the salt and the copper as if he had just pulled his razor out of that monster's throat.

He saw, as if through a vale, Erik walking into the stagnant room, glancing around in interest. Sweeney stood in the doorway, watching from a distance as the Phantom took everything in. He wandered over to the table, looking at the all of the barber's old possessions. Brushes, bowls, scissors, his musician's hands ghosted over them all, coming to rest on a plain little mahogany box. He picked it up and, out of the corner of his eyes, saw a little white envelope resting on top of a folded cloth. He grabbed that too, walking back to the barber, holding them both out to him in his gloved hands.

"Told you I could get the razors," he said, and Sweeney took the box without replying. Erik glanced down at the envelope, "And this was on the vanity…it's addressed to you."

Sweeney took them both, setting the razors aside without looking at them. He observed the letter hesitantly, but curiosity made him rip open the envelope, unfolding the neat little sheet of parchment, staring down at the carefully written black words. The handwriting was masculine but tidy, and he felt a sinking feeling settle in the pit of his stomach.

_Dear Mr. Todd,_

_I do hope that everything is alright, I've been looking for you for the past couple of days, but I seem to have always come to call at the wrong time, as neither you nor Mrs. Lovett has been in. I found your shop open, and I do hope that you don't mind that I let myself in to leave this note, but I must say that from the look of your room something quite horrible has taken place. I'm so worried that something has happened to you, there's blood absolutely everywhere and I must say I fear the worst. Please, if you find this let me know as soon as possible that things aren't what I cannot help imagining. I attempt to assume the best, but if I don't hear from you soon I shall have to go to the police, I'm so worried. _

_But I suppose I must tell you what I originally wrote to say. On brighter note, Johanna and have found a nice little temporary place on the outskirts of London, and if things are alright, I do hope that you can come out to visit us in the next week or so. You were so helpful to us, and I never got the chance to properly thank you. But, you see, Johanna has been telling me some awfully strange stories about the night that we fled. I insist to her that you are a quite normal, manerable man, but she remains convinced of what she saw. I would go into more detail, but it's awfully strange. I assure her that she is simply still traumatized from the whole event, but perhaps your word would be more of a comfort then mine, and truthfully, after finding your shop in such a state I will admit that I'm not quite sure anymore if what she says isn't true. _

_Some reassurance would be such a relief, and I am quite sure that Johanna would like to meet you once she has calmed down, and you her. We're quite happy. Our address is 299 Jumper Street, Apartment 7. It would be best if you were to visit soon, as I am not sure if we'll be staying in London for very long. A change of scenery, perhaps the Irish country side, may be just what Johanna needs._

_Please write back as soon as possible, and drop by when you get the chance._

_Hoping that this finds you well,_

_Antony Hope._

Erik took the letter out of Sweeney's hands, reading it through in silence. He put a hand on the barbers shoulder, "Well? Are you going to go?"

XXXXXXX

A/N: Please refer to previous chapter for witty review beg. Thanks for reading, I appreciate it!


	5. part V

**A/N: Hello there! So sorry that this chapter has taken longer than previous ones. It was a hard one to write, believe me! With finals and Christmas, it was just a slow process. The last one was rather short, so this one's a lot longer, too.**

**This one's mostly Sweeney… well, you can just go ahead and read it :)**

XXXXXXX

PART V

"Well? Are you going to go?"

Sweeney looked up at Erik, disoriented. "What?"

"Are you going to visit them?" He repeated slowly and loudly.

Sweeney could hardly process the Phantom's question, much less be angry at his sarcastic enunciation. He didn't even know what he had just read; he felt as though his mind was lagging miles behind him. "I-I don't know…"

Erik frowned, unsatisfied. "You don't know? She's your _daughter_. You've waited _years_ for this."

"Yes, and I had long ago resigned myself to the fact that it was never going to happen, that I was never going to see her again. I accepted it, learned to live with it."

"But now that you have the chance…how can you not take it? How could you live with the guilt, always wondering what would have happened, what you might have missed?"

"I just don't know if I could handle it."

Erik sighed, and then after a long time he said, "Well, it's not a question of what you can or cannot deal with. You read the letter, he'll go to the police if he doesn't hear from you. And who could blame him, you practically painted the place red. You're just going to have to deal with it I'm afraid."

"But you don't understand, I don't know what seeing Johanna will do to me."

Erik hesitated for a brief moment. "It's just a girl," he said softly.

"No. She's not, though. I've spent all these years imagining her, what she looks like, how she speaks, what she likes to do…I know exactly who she is…inside my head. It's horrible but… I almost want to keep her that way. What if she doesn't live up to the girl I've created? If I see her…and it's not the same…I'll never get that picture back."

"Don't say that. You know that that's illogical. She's your daughter. She'll be perfect."

He buried his face in his hands, sighing.

"This isn't a question, you know. You have to go."

"I know." He looked up with a sigh, staring at the blood splattered across his window. "I need some time to think."

Erik rested a reassuring hand on Sweeney's shoulder on his way out of the shop, giving him a small nod before closing the door.

He stood for a long minute, listening to Erik's steps on the stairs before he trudged across the room and sunk his chair, closing his eyes against the blood on the window.

What it really came down to was Antony. He wouldn't keep all that blood quiet for much longer. He had probably already gone to the police anyway, as any reasonably sane person would have. Although, thought Sweeney, the fact that Antony trusted him in any way, shape or form probably implied that he was not completely sane in the first place. He would have to assume the latter, but even if that was the case, there was still precious little time before someone was informed. Sweeney would be putting himself and Erik in an incredible amount of danger by not going to see Antony as soon as possible. The Phantom was right, it wasn't a question at all of whether he went or not, he had no choice in the matter, whatever the emotional pain it may cause him.

Besides, didn't he want to see his daughter? Shouldn't that have been all that desired to do, now that he knew where she lived? He wasn't even sure of that anymore; everything was twisted around in his mind, making him feel slightly sick.

He opened his eyes and rose absent mindedly from the chair, starting to pace, until he saw something sitting on the vanity. It was the book shaped picture frame that held the old photos of Lucy and Johanna, and he walked over to it and picked it up, hardly daring to breathe. Red-brown blood was still smeared across the faces of his wife and baby daughter. He rubbed it off with a rag from the pile next to his hand and shoved the picture frame inside his coat.

He suddenly remembered his razors, sitting on the chest where Erik had set them when he had given Erik the letter, calling out.

He crossed the room again, opening their box, feeling an ease wash over him.

It felt good to have them all back in his possession again, knowing that they had waited there in their box for him the entire time he had been gone. Comforting, reliable, always there to help solve his problems and do what he asked. A piece of metal could never lie to you, he thought fondly, taking the razor from his belt and placing it gently in the box next to the others, admiring the completed set for a long moment before picking up another, opening it gracefully and letting it catch the golden afternoon light. It was getting late; he would have to leave as soon as possible if he wanted to catch Antony and Johanna before super.

He put the razor in the holster on hip, setting the box back on the chest and walking out the door to tell Erik his decision.

XXXXXXX

"I'm going to go."

The Phantom turned from the window he had been gazing out of, pulling the lace curtain closed again. He sat down one of Mrs. Lovett's wooden booths, leaning forward, propping up his chin with a fist, gazing evenly at Sweeney. "Good."

Sweeney narrowed his eyes, "I'm going to leave right now."

He raised an eyebrow, "Alright."

"You were so fervent on me agreeing earlier…"

"Mm, yes, well, you're going, so there's no need for that now. Have a good time," he said absentmindedly, turning his attention to the ceiling as Sweeney walked out the door, the door banging mercilessly.

"Ah, who even knows what the fuck he's thinking," Sweeney muttered, pulling up his collar, deciding quickly not to give the Phantom's mood swings the time of day.

He pulled the letter out of his pocket, reminding himself of the address and setting off in the brisk London wind.

Sweeney could feel doubt begin to resurface in his stomach as he walked, scowling as it swirled unpleasantly. What if he couldn't talk? What if he couldn't handle it? Was he that much of a wuss, that he couldn't tell the story to his daughter? He'd told a complete stranger. Then again, he countered to himself, did he even have to mention the judge?

Antony would wonder about the blood, and his absence as well, but he could make up a story to explain that, fairly quickly too if he started on it while he walked, he was confident. He would greet them politely, meet his daughter for the first time, perhaps kiss her hand, observe her in raptured silence. They'd lead him into a neat living room, white furniture, dark wooden mantle, he could see it vividly. He would sit there silently, looking down at the cup of tea he would have in his hands, occasionally nodding or forcing a smile as they talked about their wedding, plans for their future, Antony might even throw in a comment about the weather. It would kill him inside, _especially_ if Antony said something about the weather, but they would never have to know the truth.

The truth, though, was what they deserved to hear, he couldn't deny it. He didn't have to go into all the details, in fact, he could give them Mrs. Lovett's version of the story. It was enough that Johanna's mother was dead, it was another thing entirely if her father killed her. That would make him a gigantic hypocrite, of course, lying to his daughter, but this was a different situation.

He made up his mind as the red brick apartment building came into view. He would tell her the truth, at least most of the truth. He wasn't sure how he would go about it, but he would get it all out somehow.

Their apartment was on the ground floor of a plain, small building, and he slowly climbed the steps up to their bright white door, raising a hand to knock.

After a long moment where he considered turning around, running back to his shop and curling up never to speak again, the door was flung open and he found himself standing face to face with Antony, who was wearing a wrinkled navy waist coat and a blank expression.

The sailor's eyes widened immediately, and he let out a huge sigh of relief. "Oh god, Mr. Todd! You're alright! Johanna! Come here, it's Mr. Todd!" He called back over his shoulder quickly.

She was at his side in a matter of seconds, and Antony had broken out into a grin. "It's so good to see you, sir, I'm so glad you got my letter." Antony said enthusiastically. He offered a hand and Sweeney grasped it robotically, eyes coming to rest on the little blonde girl at his side, her hand resting fondly on the arm that was not currently wringing Sweeney's. His daughter, his Johanna, a young woman, standing there in front of him.

All the visions that he had conjured of her in those dark years in prison vanished in the face of this demure, sweet, beautifully real girl. He hadn't needed to worry at all, she was perfect, undeniably his. His daughter. Her cream skin, rose petal cheeks, curled, shining blonde hair so like his Lucy's… but those eyes struck him, caught him off guard. He'd seen those big, glassy blue eyes before, on that night he had been driven insane by blood lust. He had forced their owner into his chair and held his razor to her throat. He'd killed his wife, and he would have killed his daughter too, the daughter that he had longed for years to see, who's childhood he had missed. He would have murdered her and never have known it, but instead she was here, looking at him with those wide, curious blue eyes, mouth set in a silent line, clearly unable to speak.

He opened his mouth, but only a very small strangled sound emerged. Antony took no notice, stepping forward and pulling him into their very plain looking little apartment, closing the front door. "Come, Mr. Todd, into the parlor, please. Sit! We have tea," He offered enthusiastically.

"I just realized," Antony said as he led them into a warm, sparsely furnished little parlor, "That I forgot to introduce you two! Mr. Todd, this is my lovely Johanna, Johanna, this is Mr. Todd. He's helped quite a bit, as I've told you."

"Nice to meet you, sir," She said in a voice as sweet as a dove's, but her face looked absent, and he saw her looking at him inquiringly. She would recognize him from that night, of course. What was she thinking about him right now?

Antony gestured to a leather armchair for Sweeney to sit in, and he and Johanna sat on the neat but worn couch across from him.

Without hesitation Johanna looked Sweeney in the eye and said plainly, "You're quite strange, aren't you? It's as if, when I look in your eyes, it looks as though you'll never be cheerful again."

"Johanna," Antony said hastily, putting a hand on her knee, "that's not very nice to say."

"I feel that way sometimes," she told Sweeney quite normally, ignoring Antony.

It nearly broke his heart to see this girl, whose blue eyes should be full of hope and curiosity and anticipation for her new life with a good intentioned husband, instead unsure of everything and terrified at every corner that the ghosts that she didn't deserve might reappear. He deserved to feel hopeless, but not his poor daughter.

"I'm sorry," Sweeney said.

Antony gave her a warm smile, "I know that you're still traumatized, my love, but things will be alright. They will."

Johanna's nod in return said that he had already ensured her of this numerous times, most likely to no avail.

"Speaking of which," Antony plowed on, leaning forward, "I'm so glad that you're alright, Mr. Todd, I really am." For a fleeting second the barber had the thought that he had known Antony long enough to offer that he called him Sweeney, but he really had no desire to do so. "I was so worried that someone had been killed, or you'd been, I mean, my goodness, all that blood, someone must have been hurt! What on earth happened!"

"I'm afraid, Antony, that people were killed," he said, his voice monotone. The quaint smiles on both of their faces vanished like the light from the eyes of those he had 'shaved.'

"You were the man in the shop that night, I knew from the minute I saw you!" Johanna exclaimed. "I was disguised as a page boy, you held a razor to my throat!"

Antony looked both confused and horrified, his mouth in one of those unflattering grimaces, but he stayed silent, watching Sweeney.

"Yes, I realize that now, but believe me if I had known that it was you, I swear I would never in my life have threatened you."

She looked confused, pink lips turning down in a dainty frown. "But sir, why would it have made a difference if you had known who I was?"

Sweeney took a deep breath, swallowing once before looking straight into his daughter's face and all but ignoring Antony. "Johanna, when you were under Turpin's care, did he tell you anything about your family?"

"Not very much, sir, only that my mother died and entrusted me into his care. He didn't speak of her often, but he told me once that her name was Lucy."

"Lucy. Yes." He felt his throat burn at Johanna's mention of her mother, her utter ignorance to the truth. Sweeney was amazed that he was even able to talk to his daughter about this while staying calm on the inside. Erik had been right after all. "He never told you anything about your father?"

Her eyebrows knitted together, "No, sir."

Very carefully he removed the picture frame from his jacket, handing it to Johanna. For a long time he was silent, watching her examine the unknown photographs, the baby and the mother, not knowing what they meant. "That's her, your mother. And the baby is you."

"I saw this on your counter that night. But Mr. Todd," She said finally, in a very small voice, as if she thought that she knew the truth but couldn't bear to say it. "Why do you have this?"

"Johanna, I…" He hesitated for a moment, stealing himself against whatever her reaction might be. "…_I'm_ your father."

If he had been watching the situation from the outside, Antony's expression would have been absolutely priceless. His jaw dropped open wide enough to catch birds, his eyebrows furrowing together and eyes popping out of his head. "_You're_ her _father_? Oh my _God_!"

Johanna glanced at Antony once before turning back to Sweeney, blinking rapidly. For a long time she was silent, occasionally looking down at her hands as Antony's head whipped from barber to daughter. Most girls would have fainted at this revelation, combined with everything else that Johanna had been put through, but there was a spark in her, she was stronger than her pretty face let on.

Finally she took a deep breath, meeting Sweeney's eyes with confidence. "Is that true?"

He nodded once, very slowly. "Barker. That's your name, Johanna Barker."

"…Yes, I think that's me." Antony looked flabbergasted, but Johanna gave a resolute little nod in return to Sweeney. "That sounds like my name."

"I changed mine long ago. Believe me, Johanna, that I would never have left you and your mother, I loved you both," he murmured, positive that he could say that one statement with complete confidence.

"I…believe you."

"It was all Judge Turpin's fault, all of it."

"But Mr. Todd, your shop," Antony interrupted. "I don't understand how this all fits together. You said someone died? What on earth does that have to do with you being Johanna's father?"

Johanna glanced from Antony to Sweeney, looking terrified from the very memories of what she had seen while hiding in that trunk, blue eyes wide, hands twisting in agitation on her lap. "Yes, you…why did you…"

"I'll tell you everything, I promise." He didn't want to recount any of it again, especially to his daughter, who, although he supposed he really didn't know, looked so sweet. But it had to be done.

"You deserve to finally hear the truth."

They were hanging on his every word, and it terrified him.

He took a deep breath.

"You were born sixteen years ago; I'd just opened up my new barber shop. Your mom and I were so happy…"

XXXXXXXX

"You're mother...couldn't handle it. She…she killed herself. Poison. Arsenic." He stared down at his hands. "I found out when I came back from prison. I vowed revenge, even if it killed me."

_How I wish it would have._

XXXXXXXX

"Toby left the razor and ran; he couldn't go through with it. I left for a few days, and when I returned I was greeted by your letter. And here I am."

He would have thought that Johanna would have been terrified after what he had told her, perhaps even enraged, but instead she remained silent for a long time, sitting unmoving on the couch, looking blank and empty.

Antony, however, seemed to be taking the terrified point of view.

"You're-you're…you're crazy! My God!" He sputtered, looking confused and repulsed.

Johanna put a reprimanding hand on Antony's arm. "Stop it, Antony. He's just sad."

The former sailor cleared his throat, fidgeting uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Mr. Todd, it's just…well, I never would have guessed. Forgive me, but that's awful. All of it!"

He fought the urge to jump up and wrap his hands around the neck of the boy that was taking away his daughter. "It is awful. But now that you know, you can forget." He looked up at Johanna, "And I suppose that you'll be Johanna Hope now, instead of Barker. Or Turpin." _Or Todd._

"Yes, well, thank goodness for that." Antony replied for her, his chuckles too hearty to

be genuine.

"You said that you were going to move? To…Ireland?"

"Ah, yes," Antony said, looking reluctant to move on from their previous topic. "Far away, I know, but I thought that it would be fitting."

"And then we'll be married when we arrive," Johanna added, and he noticed for the first time the small sliver engagement ring on her finger. "I'm sorry that you won't be there to…"

_To give you away at the altar?_

"But…perhaps you could visit some time?"

He swallowed, "I'm sorry, don't think so."

She nodded, having expected no other answer.

"Could I speak with you in private, Antony?" He asked, standing before he received an answer.

The sailor looked confused for a moment before standing as well, straightening his jacket. "Yes, of course." He led Sweeney into the hallway off of the parlor, leaving Johanna sitting on the couch.

"I'm sorry," Sweeney began, clearing his throat, "if I've broken the trust that you had in me, but you won't be seeing me again."

"It's all right, Mr. Todd. You were still very kind to me in my attempts to rescue Johanna."

"That wasn't kindness, you must realize that. I just wanted her for myself."

Antony looked down with a grimace, unable to dispute what the barber had said. "Well…" he swallowed. "I…I still like you, Mr. Todd."

"You shouldn't."

Antony made no reply, glancing down at his hands, and Sweeney sighed. "I ought to get going."

"Yes," Antony said with a nod, and he called over his shoulder, "Johanna? Mr. Todd is leaving now."

Sweeney was shaking hands with Antony when Johanna met them in the entranceway, straightening the skirts of her light pink dress. She came to stand by Antony, looking up at Sweeney with her glassy blue eyes.

'Such a sad girl, and lonely, but beautiful too,' Antony had long ago described her as, and Sweeney could see as plain as day that it was true. Even if the boy lacked some common sense and was perhaps of only moderate intelligence, Sweeney hoped to god that he would help Johanna feel less lonely. He would have to trust that Antony would, because the barber wasn't sure that he ever could have.

He would never have the chance to know.

"You're going to have to be more shrewd if you're going to survive the real world, Antony," He said, forcing a smile, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I need you to take care of my daughter."

"I will, sir," he replied, and Sweeney watched him force all of his new and disquieting knowledge to the side as he looked him squarely in the eyes and said, "I promise I will."

"Goodbye then, Antony."

"Goodbye, Mr. Todd."

It was never said out loud, but as the barber looked at the two young faces in front of him, both of them seemed to know that this would be the last time they would see him.

Johanna stepped up to him, putting a hand on his arm, head cocked to the side as she observed him. A single golden curl fell in front of her face, out of place. What was it that he saw in her eyes as they met his? Acceptance? Pity? Blame? Fear? Or perhaps none of the above. He didn't know, and didn't want to.

"I wish that I had the chance to know you," he finally murmured.

"I do too," she whispered with a small smile.

"This is easier in the end, I promise. I hope that you'll be able to find it somewhere inside yourself not to hate me. And know that I love you. I always will, Johanna."

She hugged him, and her hair smelled like roses. Just like Lucy's had.

Antony had an arm around her waist as he walked out the door.

XXXXXX

Half way back to the barber shop, he halted in sudden realization on the cobblestone street. He had left the only photo of his family on their coffee table.

He didn't go back.

XXXXXXX

**A/N: I've always wondered how it would go down if Sweeney met Johanna. We don't get to know her much in the movie, but I can imagine her channeling some Luna Lovegood. Was it okay? The whole point of this is Erik and Sweeney facing and moving on from their past lives. If you thought that this was idiotic and that I went about it the entirely wrong way, pray tell me in a review! But you can say something nicer, if you want.**

**Please consider dropping me a review, I'll always reply! I know you're there, I check my hit count compulsively! Don't make me sing the review beg again…I'll do it…I will…**

**Thanks for reading!**

**(Seriously, though, I'll sing the review beg.)**


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